


if you leave (don't look back)

by SafelyCapricious



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Multi, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 06:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19762555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/pseuds/SafelyCapricious
Summary: “You should drink this,” Shae says when Sansa settles on the bed, holding a full goblet of what looks like wine.But she’s holding it carefully — too carefully — and it’s not watered like Sansa prefers, and she’d usually rather not drink before sleep anyways and Shae knows this.Sansa considers her maid for a long moment. “Poison?” she asks, no judgement in her tone.





	1. little bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so first off, if anyone is at all sensitive to the discussion of rape, absolutely go to the end notes and read those before reading this chapter. Please! I will wait. 
> 
> Okay, you've checked up on that? 
> 
> So this is definitely darker than my last fic in this pairing. This an AU in that changes have been made pre-canon that will effect everyone. Sansa is about a little shy of 17 at the start of this fic, and still in King's Landing, for example. Theoretically all will be made clear eventually, so bare with me. 
> 
> Like always, there is maybe a little "fuck it, I do what I want" to this fic. 
> 
> Chapter two is almost done, so I'm optimistic it'll have a quick turn around -- but chapter three is giving me some fits. I kind of wanted to be more along with it before posting, but then Amy and JD weren't online to tell me to make good life choices so...Enjoy!

“You should drink this,” Shae says when Sansa settles on the bed, holding a full goblet of what looks like wine. 

But she’s holding it carefully — too carefully — and it’s not watered like Sansa prefers, and she’d usually rather not drink before sleep anyways and Shae knows this. 

Sansa considers her maid for a long moment. “Poison?” she asks, no judgement in her tone.

“No,” Shae shakes her head firmly enough that Sansa mostly believes her, then her voice softens, “Just…to make you sleep deeply.”

“Ah,” Sansa considers the goblet again. So that’s to be her fate tonight then. It was only a matter of time and yet…yet this is a kindness she wasn’t expecting — though she’s not entirely sure that poison wouldn’t be kinder — and she reaches out and takes it carefully from the other woman’s hands. “I won’t wake…during?” she thought herself brave enough to say the word, but she isn’t. Her mind shies away from the truth, from what this is. She’ll doubtless be sore in the morning, but at least she won’t have the memory of his face — of their faces if his threats are true.

“Drink deep,” is Shae’s advice. 

So Sansa raises it to her lips and drinks. She forces herself to stay upright even as the world starts to spin around her, intent on finishing the goblet before the darkness that is creeping takes her. More and more and more and — 

*** 

She dreams of wolves. 

She dreams of running through thick northern forests, snow under her paws. 

She dreams of howling at the lady moon, her brothers and sister howling with her. 

And she doesn’t want to wake. 

***

Her limbs are heavy, her eyelids feel sewn together, and there is nausea rolling in her gut when she wakes. It’s good, she thinks, that she’s still numb from the drink — she doesn’t want to feel what was done to her yet. 

“Do you wake, little wolf?” it’s a woman’s voice, which is a comfort, and the accent is similar to Shae’s, but it’s not her. Sansa tries to scour her mind for any memory of this voice and comes up blank. 

She’s never heard of a woman maester —Maester Luwin had seen her mother through all the births — but maybe the damage is very bad and they thought to include a woman for her comfort. 

It seems unlikely. 

No one has seen to her comfort in a very long time. 

She thinks the not knowing, now, may be worse than the truth, and so she slowly pries her eyes open. There’s a lovely woman leaning over her, concern etched in the skin of her brow, dark hair a loose cloud around her. She’s not dressed like a servant, at least none that Sansa has ever seen, or a septa or a maester

“You scared us, little wolf,” she says and Sansa wants to protest that she’s not a wolf — she’s lost the right to the title when she hid and was beaten and didn’t gnash her teeth and snarl. Arya, wherever she is — and Sansa refuses to believe her sister dead — is the only wolf left now. Her bastard brother is a crow, she is nothing, and her sister is the wolf. 

She finds she has no voice to tell the woman this before she realizes she shouldn’t tell the woman this — she shouldn’t be proud of her family, she needs to tell the woman that she knows her family are all dirty traitors and she loves the king. 

She has no voice to say that either. 

The woman smoothes Sansa’s hair back from her face and then wraps an arm around her and helps her sit up a little. Someone puts pillows behind Sansa and she is too weak to see who it is, but she feels too numb to care. “Here,” the woman says, and a cup is placed against her lips. “It’s water,” she reassures her, brushing more hair back.

Sansa obediently drinks. She drank the potion so that she would sleep through her own rape, she wonders who this woman is that thinks she wouldn’t drink this too without knowing what it is. 

It _is_ water, cool and sweet against her parched lips, and she drinks it down as quickly as she is able. 

“Thank you, my lady,” she says, voice rough, when the cup is taken away. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” she adds, still unsure who the woman is but sure she has better things to be doing than holding cups for one such as her. Sansa tries to will her arms to move so that she can take the cup herself, but she has little success. 

“I am no lady, and you’ve worried us,” the woman corrects, “you haven’t troubled us — you’ve been asleep for these four days. We feared you would never wake.” The woman tosses her a smile. Sansa still doesn’t know the woman’s name, but she’s not sure how to ask when it hasn’t been offered. Is she supposed to know her name and simply forgot? “You drained the whole goblet, almost. You were only expected to have a few sips before you fell asleep.” 

Sansa considers this for a moment as the woman goes and pours more water into the cup. The words don’t scare her as much, now that it’s done and over with. Especially if she was out for four days, there was no doubt plenty of time and likely she won’t have to go through it again. She’s probably already with child, after all. “I didn’t want to risk waking up during the rape,” She says, voice even, and the cup and pitcher both drop from the woman’s hands.

The woman turns to her with wide eyes and Sansa winces. She shouldn’t have called it that. Anyone would’ve been grateful for the king’s attentions — or maybe those of his knights. If she’s lucky she’ll never have to know. 

“What —“ the woman says, mouth opening and closing and Sansa bites her lower lip. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I must be slightly out of my wits from the potion. It’s a great honor, I know. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” 

“Un—ungrateful?” the woman’s voice goes up in pitch and Sansa half expects herself to be dragged from the bed by her hair and brought before the queen. She’s a stupid girl and she wasn’t thinking and — this woman is not Shae. She doesn’t even know who this woman is. 

Sansa is too weak to defend herself and she doesn’t know this woman well enough to know how to talk her down. Maybe, she thinks as she closes her eyes and waits for whatever is to come, maybe having a babe in her belly will protect her from the worst of it. She doubts it though. 

She flinches back and her eyes fly open as there’s a hand against her face and she thought she could be brave but she can’t. “Oh love, oh my darling love,” the woman is cradling her face and she kisses her forehead and Sansa finds herself wrapped tight in an embrace — and she doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know what’s happening. This doesn’t make _any_ sense.

“Fetch Oberyn,” the woman says, cheek against the top of Sansa’s head, and Sansa’s brain, muddy though it still is, latches onto the name. 

Arya had always loved stories of the Red Viper of Dorne, the few that made it all the way to the North, much to their mother’s disapproval. Sansa had joined in that disapproval, but she still knows the name of the man and she cannot fathom there are many who share the name and the woman’s accent could be Dornish and — she regrets not having listened to the stories more closely. She’s found herself in an unknown situation and she’s not sure the best way to behave to survive this. 

“What is it?” comes the voice of who Sansa can only assume is Oberyn, and then, when the woman holding her doesn’t respond, more alarmed, “Ellaria?” 

Sansa wonders if she’ll ever get strength back in her arms. But for now she can admit that it’s nice to be held. Even if she doesn’t know what’s going to happen next. 

“She thought she was going to be _raped_ ,” the woman — Ellaria — Sansa has to remember. Ellaria hisses between her teeth. “She woke up and she thought she’d been raped and she apologized to me for being a fuss and thanked me for my help, Oberyn, _fix this._ ” 

Sansa breathes in the sweet perfume of the woman — Ellaria. Orange blossoms, she thinks, and something that reminds her of spiced wine. They are talking about her as if she’s not there, and the things that are being said don’t make sense, so she does her best to vanish, though she is still being held against Ellaria’s breasts. 

Oberyn replies, voice angry, and Sansa finds that despite having slept for four days she still feels very tired, and cradled as she is it’s easy to let her mind wander and let herself drift away. 

***

She’s a bird, out in the garden. 

There’s a table that’s filled with nibbles and crumbs, but the skirts keep chasing her away. 

There’s hunger gnawing at her gut and her babies are hungry too. 

It’s hard to know how to avoid the fluttering skirts — except that Sansa does know how to avoid them. 

This way, she thinks, and she hops carefully first left and then right and they don’t see her when she moves in the shadows like this and — there. A fallen cake. Perfect. 

It takes some work to get a piece of the cake small enough to carry, and she eats her fill as she does, but then she has it and carefully grips with her beak and takes off and —

*** 

Sansa feels like she’s going to vomit. Her mouth tastes like cake and her gut is rolling.

Ellaria is leaning over her again and there’s something cool on her head — a wet cloth, funny, that wasn’t there before — over Ellaria’s shoulder there’s a man looming and it takes her a moment to realize who it must be. 

He’s a prince, she remembers, and she forces weak limbs to push herself up and Ellaria is too surprised to stop her until she’s trying to curtsey and near falling over, clutching the bed and she realizes for the first time that she’s not wearing the dress she fell asleep in — she’s not wearing anything she recognizes in fact. “My prince,” she says, cheating and resting her back foot more fully than she should in order to keep her balance. She can’t curtsey as low as she’d like either — not without risking falling, and she thinks if she falls she won’t be able to get back up. 

“What — no — get back in bed he doesn’t need — Oberyn! Why aren’t you helping?” Ellaria says, as she wraps her arms around Sansa’s waist to pull her back to her feet. 

“I rather thought my grabbing her would be more alarming than you,” Oberyn says, dry. He has the same accent as Ellaria, and he has Martell suns on his vest. She’s right, she thinks, he must be Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne. “Besides, you seem to have her well in hand.” 

Sansa does her best to help Ellaria sit her back on the bed, but she doesn’t go back under the covers. Her stomach has settled, somewhat, and her mouth no longer tastes like cake. “I apologize,” Sansa says, gathering her tattered dignity around her as best she can, back straight, chin high and gaze lowered, like she’s learned is best, “my prince. I do not mean to inconvenience you or your household, but I fear I am weak yet. May I be allowed to rest a little longer before attempting to make my way back to my chambers?” 

He looks over at Ellaria for a moment and Sansa realizes her mistake, immediately turning to the woman and — because it looks like she’s not going to get off the bed again without falling — inclines her head deeply. “Thank you, Lady Ellaria, I do not mean to press on your hospitality.” 

She sees, before she lowers her gaze, that Ellaria’s eyes are narrowed and they look shiny with tears. She must be so frustrated with Sansa. 

“I think,” Oberyn says, slowly, as he drags a stool closer and settles onto it, “that there has been a misunderstanding, Lady Stark.” 

The words cut, but she does her best not to show it. She’s not a Stark any longer, she’s a Lannister now — wedded and, well, perhaps not bedded by her husband, but probably by a Lannister nonetheless. 

“You weren’t raped,” Ellaria snaps, as if she can hear Sansa’s thoughts, standing abruptly from the bed and pacing with her arms wrapped tight around her middle. 

Sansa tries to pull a serene smile to her face and she tilts her head. “I know, my lady, I misspoke earlier. I do apologize, the…wine, I fear, made me a little confused when I woke.” She folds her hands in her lap so as not to fidget and give herself away. “Of course, I love the king, and his attentions — or those of others he deems me worthy of — are always welcome.” 

“No!” Ellaria reaches up and tugs on her hair and lets out a deep breath, forcing herself calm. Sansa watches her from beneath lowered lashes. “No,” she says softer, “you were not touched. If you were a maiden when you drank the potion then you are a maiden still. I don’t know —“ She takes another bracing breath and she uses a hand to dash moisture from her eyes.

Oberyn reaches out and grabs Ellaria’s other hand, pulling it to his mouth and kissing her knuckles. “There was a note with the potion,” he says, dark gaze intent on Sansa, “I take it you never received such a note?” She shakes her head and he says, “I see,” in a dark voice that makes Sansa wish she could hide. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, barely above a whisper. 

Ellaria is at her side in an instant, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and taking both her hands in one of hers. Practice keeps Sansa from flinching too badly. “It’s _not_ your fault,” she says, sharply, and Sansa nods because she suspects apologizing for apologizing is not going to be helpful and she doesn’t know what else to say. She’s so stupid. 

“I should be the one apologizing,” Oberyn says, and Ellaria’s arm tightening around her shoulders keeps her from saying anything in response. “Your father,” he says, and Sansa flinches. His voice gentles and Ellaria begins to rub her back. “Your father did a great service to my House, but not one that could ever be acknowledged publicly. And as soon as we received word of his death I should have been here, I should have known that — I should have known better, but instead I — I should have been here sooner.” 

Sansa doesn’t understand. Her father never spoke of the Martells, no more than any of the other great houses. She knows her aunt died in Dorne but — she’s not sure why she’s here, still. “I’m sorry,” she says, gaze downcast, “I can be rather slow. I don’t understand why I’m here. Or…or why you had me drink the potion if not — If not what I thought before.” 

“Seven hells,” he swears and then he’s crouched before her and she cannot avoid his gaze. “We are here to rescue you, Lady Stark, and to return you to your seat just as your father returned my sister, Elia, and her children to our family so long ago.” 

She can only stare at him in shock, and he takes one of her hands from Ellaria’s grip and presses a kiss to her knuckles. 

“And much like how your father smuggled them out those years ago — wrapping my sister in a rug and the babies in with pillows — we thought it would be easier to drug you to make sure you made no noise during the process.” He rubs her hand between his and smiles. “As we speak the Red Keep is turning itself inside out for you, as you seem to have vanished into mist.” 

She’s still staring and she doesn’t know what to do with…with anything. Ellaria presses a kiss to the side of her head. 

“You’re going to take me to Winterfall?” she asks, finally, voice small and hopeful. 

***

“We should kill all of them,” Ellaria says, voice low so as not to disturb Sansa sleeping in the other room, unable to sit still as she paces back and forth. 

Oberyn doesn’t say anything, and she refuses to look at him right now. He’s still in the chair he’d stretched out in once they left Sansa, she sees out of the corner of her eye. The poor girl is sleeping now — real sleep, not the drugged sleep of earlier or the — or whatever happened when she passed out from surprise. 

“She’s just — did you see how _calm_ she was, at the thought that she’d been raped repeatedly over the past few days? We have to kill all of them and —“ 

“We can’t,” Oberyn says, and she whirls on him, snarling.

“I will gut the sons of whores myself, if I must, but this cannot go unanswered we—“

“We _can’t_ ,” Oberyn says again, and she meets her lover’s eyes and sees her own rage reflected there. “We can’t because we need to get lady Stark away from here. We owe her safety over vengeance.” 

Ellaria has to pick up a pillow to scream into. Warm hands cover hers, and once she’s screamed the pillow is tugged away and dropped to the floor and Oberyn is enfolding her in his embrace. 

“But we will get their names, and they will all die — by blade or by dragon fire — they will all die, my love.” He presses a kiss to her forehead and she lets out a ragged breath. “They will all die.”

She lets out a short breath and leans her weight on him. “Good.” Oberyn leads her to the chair he was in, settling again and pulling her into his lap as he does. She takes a deep breath and tries to let go of her anger. She mostly fails. 

“You’ve been closer to her, do you think she’ll be ready to travel after tomorrow?” Oberyn asks as his fingers massage her hand. 

Ellaria bites her lower lip and nods. “She’ll be able to make it to the boat, I’m sure. She has a spine of steel and possibly more stubbornness than you, my love.” 

He scoffs and kisses her palm before moving onto her next hand. “More stubborn than me? Never.” 

Tilting her head back so she can take in his profile she smiles and leans up for a kiss which he happily returns. “She couldn’t sit up in bed to drink a glass of water, but as soon as she was awake again she was trying to curtsey to you — I don’t know what else to call that.” Her muscles had been shaking after too, for all that the girl had tried to stay so still and composed. She shakes her head. “But we will have to keep an eye on her, I fear she’ll push herself past what she can do just so as not to be a burden.”

“Then it’s good the first part of the journey will be by boat and she’ll have plenty of time to rest and recover,” he returns, easily, gaze fixed at some point in the future and she wonders what he’s thinking of. She raises a hand to rest against his cheek and he turns back to the present and to her. “I wasn’t wrong to tell her about Elia, was I? If she decided to tell —“ 

“If she told no one would believe her, and anyone who did could be silenced easily enough. Besides, she’ll be with us for a while yet. No, love, you did well. She could see the truth, I think, and it will help her to trust us.” Ellaria isn’t sure the girl, and she is a girl — only six and ten — despite being more composed than woman twice her age and in such a dreadful situation, will ever be able to trust again. Just like trauma and sorrow can age a spirit it can also make trust impossible. 

She hopes it’s not too late for Sansa Stark. That she’s still capable of coming back from that precipice. And, she thinks with a smile as she pulls Oberyn into another kiss, if anyone is stubborn enough to drag someone back from there it is her prince. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this first chapter starts with Sansa thinking she's going to be raped, and then thinking she has been raped. She is convinced she has been raped and is trying to deal with that -- but she is not, has not, and will not be raped. At no point in this story is anyone actually raped, though mention may be made of other characters doing it off screen because goddamn does it happen a distressing amount in GoT. If you have more questions before you read please visit me on [tumblr](https://capriciouswrites.tumblr.com/) and ask me there, or leave a comment here and I'll get in touch. 
> 
> Generally speaking though, this is going to be a positive fic, we've just got some dark to get through first. Tags will be added as we go, though I started tagging for the relationship before it's romantic purely because shipping is the main reason I write.
> 
> Oh, also, I've played with ages a bit here (specifically Sansa's).
> 
> I feel like there was something else I was going to put here.
> 
> Um. Yeah. Thanks for reading!


	2. snow slippers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa, as has been her habit in the past few days they’ve been on the boat, has tucked herself against the railing, out of the way, and is staring out over the water. Ellaria thinks she might be in shock still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I recognize that in July I said chapter two was almost done...but I just wasn't happy with it, so there were lots of edits. ~~I'm still not sure I'm happy with it, but we've reached peak fuck it, so fuck it~~. I would tell you that chapter three is almost done, but, given history I don't wanna be a liar twice. 
> 
> I hope this lives up to expectations, though it's a little bit wander-y. 
> 
> I think that's everything, let me know if there are questions!

“Is she always so,” Obara pauses for a moment to consider her words — which probably means the first choice was rude and she has correctly read Ellaria’s expression and has now chosen to change direction. Ellaria only has one guess as to who Obara is talking about, and she finds herself still feeling very protective of her. “calm?” 

Ellaria considers and discards several answers before bothering to glance at where Obara’s gaze is fixed. 

Sansa, as has been her habit in the past few days they’ve been on the boat, has tucked herself against the railing, out of the way, and is staring out over the water. Ellaria thinks she might be in shock still. 

“Well, she is northern,” Oberyn says, startling Obara, as he’s been lurking out of sight. “I have heard that they can be quite _stoic_.” 

Ellaria coughs into her fist and glances at him. Elia reminds them of how stoic she was when she fled King’s Landing often enough — for some reason her favorite descriptor of her time during the journey. It seems Ellaria is not alone is having some doubts about Elia’s actual stoicism, especially when compared with a Stark — if this is a Stark daughter at six and ten, Ellaria can only imagine how stoic her father, known for being stern, would have been. 

“I think,” Ellaria says, measured, when she’s managed to control her desire to laugh, “that she is just adjusting to the new order of things, and may become more outgoing the further we get from King’s Landing. She has had a rather rough time of it.” 

Obara considers and nods, thoughtful, though Ellaria doesn’t miss her glancing at the two of them just as thoughtfully. 

Sansa tilts her head back, and the ghost of a smile curves her lips, and Ellaria finds herself smiling in response. 

***

“Oh,” Sansa breathes, hands clasped tight before her, when she sees the horses and Ellaria feels warmth bloom in her own chest. Sansa’s wonder is that of a young girl — the young girl Ellaria has begun to fear was lost forever. 

“Do you ride, my lady?” Oberyn asks, leading his own horse towards them for her to admire and Ellaria has to watch the joy drain from Sansa’s face. 

If she didn’t think it would alarm the girl more she would hit Oberyn, and the urge is quite strong enough that she’s afraid she will regardless. Never mind that she wouldn’t have predicted such a question causing distress herself. 

“I have not had occasion, recently,” is what she says, after a moment, eyes downcast. 

Oberyn shoots Ellaria an alarmed look and she can’t help but roll her eyes — at least the man knows when he’s somehow done wrong. 

“Then you aren’t sick of it before we start!” Oberyn regroups and pulls Hellfire closer yet. 

Sansa doesn’t move away, her feet planted although she worries her hands. Ellaria might be holding her breath as Hellfire nudges Sansa in the chest and the girl finally reaches out tentative fingers. The horse is just as vain as his master, and nuzzles shamelessly into the caress — and Sansa begins to glow again. 

Oberyn looks exceptionally smug, and Ellaria rolls her eyes before offering Sansa a bit of apple she’d prepared for them meeting the horses. Sansa takes the apple, glancing up at Ellaria from lowered eyelids and Ellaria is momentarily acutely aware of what Sansa is going to look like once she’s done growing. It’s enough to make her feel a little faint. And then it’s gone and Sansa is offering up a flat palm to Hellfire, who is already besotted with her. She giggles, a girl again, as the muzzle tickles the palm of her hand. 

Oberyn lets the reins fall slack and steps back, and Ellaria joins him. Sansa hasn’t noticed, as she leans closer and whispers endearments to the horse. “You’re such a beautiful boy, aren’t you?” 

Ellaria snorts and glances sideways at Oberyn, “Wish she was saying that to you, don’t you?” 

***

“It’s unnatural, is what it is,” Daemon says, taking a moment under the awning to try to wrap his oilskin tighter around to avoid the wet dripping down. “If the Seven wanted us to be in this, they would’ve given us gills.”

Ellaria hums her acknowledgement. She’d thought the rain romantic at first, but that was weeks ago and she hadn’t anticipated just how the damp would seep into everything. In Dorne, water is seen as a blessing. Now she finds herself cursing it.

“Grow some balls,” Obara says, punching Daemon in the shoulder. He winces dramatically and clutches his arm, staggering back a step. “If the princess can handle it, so can you.” 

It’s always easy to find Sansa. With everyone changed into the nondescript muted colors prevalent in the region, she stands out -- bright. Even with her hair wrapped, the paleness of her skin in noticeable. Her mood has also brightened, noticeably, despite the wet -- although Obara is right, she hasn’t seemed to have any issue with it, unlike the rest of them. 

“Her mother was a fish,” Daemon mutters and is slapped upside the head by both Ellaria and Obara for his words. 

Ellaria had been concerned with how Sansa would take to the journey -- and being surrounded by strangers on all sides. She’d been extra concerned about Oberyn’s daughters but -- 

She needn’t have worried. She should have known that a girl who had survived the Red Keep as a prisoner would not be easily overtaken. Sansa hasn’t even shown any impatience -- unlike the rest of them -- at the delay the weather has caused. 

The first storm had been beautiful -- furious lightning arcing across the sky and thunder like mountains crashing together shaking the ground -- and Sansa, standing in the downpour with her face tilted up and her eyes closed and the ghost of a smile on her lips -- she seems older, now, then when she was curled on the bed and -- 

“Behave, you two,” Ellaria chides as Sansa steps carefully towards them, unhurried. 

“It’s time for my patrol,” Daemon says with a sigh, sketching a gallant bow and throwing a wink towards Ellaria and Obara before capturing Sansa’s hand as she enters range, dipping into another bow and pressing his lips to her hand. “My lady.”

“Ser,” Sansa’s lips quirk up slightly, as does an eyebrow, before she’s taking his place between Ellaria and Obara, looking out on the rest of camp. 

“The flooding of the pass has gotten worse,” she says, pushing back the oilcloth over her hair and settling into stillness, “but the hunters found pheasant and hare for the stew, so we shan’t starve while we wait.” 

“While we mold, you mean,” Obara says, with a dramatic eye-roll. 

Sansa shrugs lightly and tilts her face up, and Ellaria is enchanted by the curve of her cheek and the shadow of her eyelashes. “It will snow, soon, and then you’ll be thinking fondly of that mold.” 

Obara shudders, still in her dramatics, and Ellaria frowns. “Is winter upon us so soon, Lady Stark?” 

Her laugh is soft, but there -- and Ellaria is forcibly reminded of the weeks upon the ship before they made land when it seemed impossible that Sansa would ever smile or laugh again, so withdrawn and quiet she was. “We are just into the North, Lady Sand, there will be snow regardless of season.” She goes quiet, still and absent, gone somewhere else. When she speaks her voice sounds like it’s crossing a great distance, echoing through ghosts and ancestors. “But winter is coming.”

***

Oberyn approaches Sansa carefully -- not as if she is a skittish mare, but as if she is a snake who may or may not have poison. Or, perhaps, the more accurate analogy would be as if she is a wolf. 

Ellaria doesn’t think anyone else has noticed -- or if they have they assume his care is for the delicacy of the lady. She knows her lover better than that, and she has to hide a laugh behind a cough as he approaches with some lovely white flowers in hand. 

“It appears we are stuck again, my ladies,” he says as he comes to a stop. 

Ellaria can’t help her dismay at the words -- the company is lovely, and she’d been prepared for the journey to be slow as they did their best to avoid conflict, but she hadn’t expected nature itself to offer so many barriers. 

Sansa hums, softly, gaze distant as she stares into ice covered trees. It’s not raining anymore, but everything is frozen solid except for the mud. “We’ve made better time than I ever could have hoped,” she says, eyes turning towards Oberyn. 

The snort that escapes Ellaria isn’t ladylike in the slightest -- but then, she’s never been a lady. “Slower than I was expecting,” she says in an undertone, amused when Oberyn gives her a commiserating look. They’d all underestimated the difficulties of the north it seems. 

“No, really,” Sansa says, earnest, and young for a moment in a way she rarely is, “Even the main roads are probably treacherous now, and without a native guide we’re doing exceptionally. We’re very close now, in any case.” 

“The men will be glad to hear it,” Oberyn says, with a grin, before holding out the flowers towards Sansa. She blinks, like she hadn’t realized he’s been carrying them the whole time, and then glances to Ellaria, abashed. 

“Snow slippers, my prince,” she says, “they bloom for only a very short time before a snow. They’re considered good luck to find.” 

“For you,” he urges, when she still hasn’t taken them, and she glances to Ellaria again. Ellaria tries not to grin too widely, trying for a reassuring smile instead. 

Sansa nods slightly, to herself, and then reaches out a careful hand to take the flowers. “Thank you.” 

Oberyn nods, sketches a bow and then starts to depart when what Sansa has said suddenly hits Ellaria. “Wait, what do you mean it’s -- are we going to have snow?” 

Sansa laughs, full throated and gorgeous, and Oberyn steps forward, entranced, and she uses him to keep her knees under her. 

Maybe she should also be approaching Sansa like the wolf she is, otherwise she’ll find herself slain before she’s realized. 

***

“She would make an excellent queen,” Nymeria says, one day, as she and Oberyn break their fast as the company finally wakes. It’s their second day stuck in this section of their path, though the rain has stopped momentarily and they're waiting to find out how the passes have cleared. They’ve been up for hours, sparring. It was interesting to attempt on the boat, but fear of losing weapons over the side did limit their creativity somewhat, and it's horrid to do in the rain and mud, though they've managed it to fend off boredome.

Oberyn glances over his shoulder to follow her gaze, and he should have guessed who she was referring to. Sansa has just emerged from her tent, head held high and looking regal despite the rough quality of the dress she’s in. She smiles and stops to speak to a group of the men — and they all turn towards her like flowers to the sun. 

She’d done the same on the boat, and he wonders if it was her father or mother who taught her the importance of such small courtesies. Half the men, he’s amused to think, would likely obey her order over his at this point — and he’s not sure he’d hold it against them.

“I doubt your cousins and their aunt would like it very much, were the North to remain independent,” he says, dryly, as he takes a drink of his kaff, gaze fixed on Sansa as she continues to go about her morning ritual.

“I meant her to _marry_ my cousin, father.” Nymeria rolls her eyes at him, and he’d chastise her for it if he didn’t feel as if she’d just struck him in the gut. “Aegon could not do better than her, I don’t think.”

“Given her history,” he says, more sharply than he means to, “I suspect she won’t want to leave Winterfell once she’s made it there. Besides, even if she could be convinced, there’s no one else to take the ruling of the North over.” 

His daughter hums and Oberyn has the absurd urge to challenge her to another spar, though they’ve yet to fully cool down. “Someone could rule in her name. Or her sister is still supposed to be alive, yes? Or the bastard brother, on the wall —“ 

“No,” Oberyn says, final, and Nymeria looks at him with surprised eyes. “She’s suffered enough, leave her out of your mechanisms.” 

She blinks at him after a moment, and then nods slowly. “Yes, of course.” 

Oberyn turns back to his meal, his stomach sour as it wasn’t before and his gaze is inevitably drawn to Sansa who has finally settled by one of the fires to break her fast with the men. 

She really does look like a queen, for all that she hasn’t had a proper bath any more than they have in weeks and she’s still pale and a little too thin from her ordeal in King’s Landing. She glances over by chance, and her smile deepens at him and his heart lurches. 

She’s young enough to be his daughter — she’s younger than several of his daughters. 

And, he realizes as his heart falls, his feelings for her are decidedly unfatherly. 

He forces himself to take a deep breath and consider her and Aegon. The boy has been raised right, and while older than her, he is not unreasonably older. He would probably make a good husband, and he would know well to give her the adoration she deserves. 

But with him would come the crown — he couldn’t just be husband he would also be king. And Sansa had already been engaged to a king once. And while he is not blind to his nephew’s faults, he’s certainly no Joffrey.

But she wants Winterfell, he reminds himself. She wants to be home and safe and to never go south again. 

Which is a pity. She’d have a lovely time in the Water Gardens, he thinks — and then he turns resolutely to his breakfast before he can imagine just why she would be in Dorne for a visit of that nature. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ellaria's POV for most of it! I love her a lot. I hope this was fun for everyone. Cool, thanks for reading! <3
> 
> Also, the next chapter is the one I'm most looking forward to. <3


	3. the wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn realizes that Sansa is missing a moment before the man steps out from behind a copse of trees, holding her against his chest with a knife to her throat. Other men step out with him, but his gaze is fixed on the bastard holding Sansa.
> 
> _Or, the sudden appearance of plot actually moving forward is confusing to all of us_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I recognize that I posted the second chapter like...less than a week ago. But I have stressful things coming up in work and require validation, and will try to buy it the only way I know how. That being said, I'm super excited about this chapter. Lots happens. Please, take a look! 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your kind words on the last chapter, you played no small part in me managing to get this up so fast.
> 
> (Note: Chapter four is like...a tenth done, it will not be posted in under a week, but I'm aiming for less than the time between one and two so....fingers crossed.)

Oberyn realizes that Sansa is missing a moment before the man steps out from behind a copse of trees, holding her against his chest with a knife to her throat. Other men step out with him, but his gaze is fixed on the bastard holding Sansa.

The last report has the Bolton forces several leagues west yet, but there’s no one else this could be. Not his full force obviously, but enough.

“Tsk, tsk,” he says, tapping the flat of his blade against Sansa’s cheek, and Oberyn’s blood boils, “southerners in the north are a sad sight. I appreciate you bringing my bride to me, but I think it’s best you leave now.” 

More men emerge from the trees, a few hold the banner of the flayed man in confirmation of Oberyn’s suspicion. There are also hounds on leashes, frothing at the mouth and growling softly. Nymeria inches closer to where Oberyn stands and the Bolton bastard smirks at her. 

“Although if you want to leave some of your Dornish whores, I wouldn’t object to that. Naturally my men would get the leftovers. What little was left!” He giggles, at that, like a small boy who has put a toad in his sister’s shoe.“These highborn ladies can be awful delicate, can’t they? Though,” and the arm he has around Sansa’s waist shifts so that he can curl a hand over her breast, “this one is northern stock, so she might be sturdier than expected!” He giggles, high and eerie again, but the knife at Sansa’s throat doesn’t move. 

Oberyn’s people have been moving forward, steadily, ready to fight, and the Bolton bastard must suddenly notice because the knife presses suddenly closer and Oberyn holds out a hand to halt them. “My lord,” he says, as reasonably as he can with his blood pounding in his ears, “you aren’t going to kill her, you need her to cement your claim.” He tries to meet Sansa’s eyes, but even as she stares straight at him he doesn’t think she’s seeing a thing. 

Bolton’s grin twists to the side, “A fair point. But I think I’d enjoy her death, if it meant you couldn’t get her back.” 

Sansa says something, too soft for Oberyn to hear, but it makes Bolton laugh again. 

“This little bitch just said she’s a wolf! Do you think that means she wants to be mounted by a dog?” he shouts, and his men join him in laughter, and Sansa closes her eyes and collapses in his arms. “I guess,” he says, holding her limp body, “she’s not such a wolf after all!” 

The dogs all abruptly quiet, and Oberyn glances at them briefly — and then he turns to stare. Because all of the dogs are still snarling, but silently now, and they’re all staring at the Bolton bastard. The men holding the dogs have all stopped laughing and are staring at their charges in confusion and then — 

They howl in unison, not like dogs but like wolves and — 

Half the dogs turn on their handlers, the other half lunge for Bolton and Oberyn breaks into a sprint because Sansa is _there_ and — the dogs drag Bolton away and he’s screaming as high pitched as his giggle and one of the dogs is standing over Sansa and snarling but then it sees Oberyn and — and it joins the others at Bolton.

Oberyn picks up Sansa and she’s limp in his arms and not moving and he rushes back to behind a line of his people, who are steadily attacking those that are left, because she needs to be _safe_. 

He falls to the ground, gently cradling her, and his fingers card through her hair and she’s not rousing and then — from the fight a yelp — and her eyes fly open and she rolls out of his arms and starts to heave. 

He reaches for her, holding her hair back though it’s in a sensible braid, and rubs her back as she empties her stomach. Obara approaches with a mug of wine, other hand on her whip and an eye on the fighting, which is decidedly in their favor — the men seem more afraid of the dogs than Oberyn’s men, and are fleeing as quickly as they can. 

Oberyn takes the mug and then helps Sansa sit up, an arm about her waist. She takes the mug with shaking hands, sips, swishes, and spits — repeating the process twice more before drinking deep. 

“You’re a warg,” Obara says, surprise and maybe approval in her voice, glancing at Sansa. 

“Not a very good one,” Sansa replies with a grimace, rubbing the back of her hand over her mouth.

***

Sansa has been sleeping for the better part of three days, but she still sleeps soundly at night. It’s not the same terrifying sleep as her last extended rest — which is a comfort. Ellaria is fretting enough as is, Oberyn can only imagine how much worse it would be if Sansa was completely unresponsive. But she does wake up for snatches of time, is insistent that they continue forward if they can, eats and drinks and uses the privy and then she’s out again.

Oberyn isn’t quite willing to let her out of his sight, not after she was almost taken, and so he keeps her with him on the horse as they carry on. He interrogates his daughters about “wargs” as they walk, the pace is easy and they break often. The bulk of the Bolton forces are, no doubt, still waiting them and the death of a bastard son probably won’t upset things too much. Their goal is to find if the others in the North are willing to support Sansa in her attempt to reclaim her seat. They’ll do it without them if they have to, but it won’t be as easy and may cause problems in the long run. 

Of course, they need Sansa awake to make her case, so they take their time and walk slowly.

At night she sleeps in his tent. He has Ellaria and Tyrene sleep in there as well, for proprieties sake. Also because it’s damned cold in the north, and with the four of them in the tent it’s almost a reasonable temperature. 

He’s not sure what wakes him, but when he blinks his eyes he sees the tent flap parting and — Sansa. 

He’s on his feet before he’s sure, but it’s the work of a second to verify she’s not in the tent and then he’s outside and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust — and he has a moment to regret not grabbing a fur — before he can see that she’s the one who opened the tent flap and she’s alone. 

He has a hysterical moment of wondering if she’s got a lover, someone she set a rendezvous up with before he fully realizes the impossibility of that. He’s been at her side near constantly since even before she was taken — and if not him than Ellaria — and he’d bee a fool not to realize how she still flinches back when any of the men reach for her when she’s not expecting it.

But still it doesn’t make sense — she’s woken them up in the night before when she needed things, so why not tonight and —

There’s a shadow moving towards her and she must be freezing in just her shift, but she’s opening her arms and —

Oberyn’s heart freezes in his chest. 

That is a wolf. 

That is a _very_ large wolf. 

And Sansa has wrapped her arms around it’s muzzle and is nuzzling it and — And the wolf isn’t eating her. 

He has a moment to feel relief before he realizes there’s a second wolf and it’s circled around and is now between Sansa and him, staring him down and —

“Nymeria,” Sansa’s voice calls out, “he’s a friend — he saved me. Please be nice?” 

Oberyn isn’t sure why Sansa is talking to his daughter, who he can’t see — though his gaze is very much fixed on the wolf that looks like it wants to eat him — or why she needs to be told what he did — she knows — but then the wolf is turning away from him with a huff and going to nudge Sansa with its nose and she’s petting it as well. 

“This is Nymeria,” Sansa says, glancing at him over her shoulder with a smile. “She’s Arya’s. And this is Lady.” She smacks a kiss on the head of the wolf — Direwolf, must be, he thinks numbly — that’s as big as some of the horses. “She’s mine.” 

Oberyn nods, because he’s not sure what else to do, and fainting would ruin his reputation. 

***

They make camp and Oberyn sends out riders to contact the small houses in the North. He’s confident that his people can defeat the Bolton’s, but not without losses, and Sansa needs to have support here, from the North. So they send out riders and they wait. 

“It would be better if I went to them,” Sansa says again, as she frets by a fire. There’s an almost complete Stark banner she’s embroidered since they’ve started waiting, laying across her lap.

“I doubt they want an army of Dornishmen knocking on their doors, my lady,” Daemon says, dryly, as he sharpens a dagger at her side. 

They doubt that anyone will be so bold again, as the Bolton bastard was, but none of them are willing to take the chance and Sansa has been very graceful about having a constant companion. 

Sansa bites her lower lip and looks so young for a moment that Oberyn has to turn away. “I meant by myself.” At that Oberyn walks away. Most of the time she’s so composed that it’s easy to see the woman she’ll become — but she’s not yet seven and ten and he’s old enough to be her father. 

“Riders are approaching,” Obara says, when his stalk takes him close to her. He turns to retrieve his spear so he can be casually leaning on it when the horses come into the clearing. 

There’s thirty or so men, it looks like, and three different banners. 

The men don’t dismount, and Oberyn wonders if this is a slight. They’ve approached to the front, and his people near surround them, and they are armed but aren’t poised to attack. 

“It’s far north for the Dornish,” says a bulky man near the front of the host. The orange banner with a rather terrifying moose head on it is right behind him and Oberyn can only assume this is the head of the house — or at least the one representing them. “And you claim to have the Stark girl.” 

Sansa had tried to teach him the names and sigils of the minor houses, but he’d found it far more entertaining to tease her and watch her blush, and he’s now a little ashamed that he hadn’t paid better attention. He thinks the house is Hornhall — something with a horn, certainly? 

Luckily he doesn’t have to respond, because someone must have told Sansa about the guests and she’s walking forward, chin high and shoulders back. Daemon is at her shoulder, looking every inch the fighter he is. 

“I have no hall to greet you in, Lord Hornwood, Lord Mazin, Lady Mormont,” Oberyn has to take a second look at Sansa’s words, and he realizes what he’d taken for a young boy is, in fact, a slightly older girl, “and no hearth at which for you to rest, for they have been taken from me. But I would offer you bread and salt all the same, and a place by my fire. You have always been loyal to my family and I thank you for it.” She hasn’t had a chance for a real bath in several weeks, none of them have, but there’s still something regal in how she tips her head. 

“Pretty words,” says the man with the checkered banner, “but how do we know you’re her — you’re actually a Stark?” 

Oberyn bares his teeth at that insult, but Sansa doesn’t so much as stiffen, only nodding her head slightly and then turning her head to the side. She reaches for Daemon and he gives her his arm without a thought, and her eyes go white for a second and then she blinks and they’re blue again.

His men all still as the Direwolves make their way through them, for all that they’ve each had days to see Sansa with the creatures there’s a wariness that hasn’t left them. The wolves are near as big as the horses the Northmen are on, and they come and sit by Sansa. Daemon takes a step back so one can take his place. The lighter one, who Oberyn knows to be Lady, lays down, partially curled around where Sansa stands, while Nymeria sits at her side and watches the men and horses. 

“My father gifted me and my siblings Direwolves when we were children,” she says, resting her hand lightly on Nymeria’s head. “But when Robert Baratheon demanded their heads, they were sent away instead, before they could die.” Lady rumbles a growl at her feet and the horses all shift, those on them staring at Sansa. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything with me, any longer, that I brought with me to King’s Landing. But they found me again and they are the best proof I can offer.” She shrugs, lightly, eyes downcast for a moment before she looks up and meets the eyes of the lords and lady one by one. “I am Sansa Stark. Eldest daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, and heir to Winterfell.” She offers them a heartbreaking smile.

They stay frozen for a long moment, before the front three dismount and bow, hands on their hearts. “Lady Stark,” says the girl, surprisingly imposing for someone so small, “Welcome home.” 

“Thank you, Lady Mormont,” Sansa says, smile blossoming more. “I would like to take back my home,” Sansa continues, like this is a peaceful meeting hall and not a clearing in the middle of winter woods. “We have already killed the Bolton’s bastard, and a hundred or so of his men. Will you help me — help House Stark?” 

The three in the lead consider, and then nod, and the men cry out as the wolves howl. 

Oberyn is sure there are going to be songs written of this moment, and he’s sure none of them will think to include the tight terrified grip of Sansa’s hands behind her back— at how scared she is despite everything and he wants to steal her away and make sure that everything is safe. 

But that is not what he’s come to do.

***

There is something to be said, Oberyn decides, for a parlay force that’s led by a girl on a Sand Steed, black as sin with mane of fire that matches hers, with wolves as big as the horse on either side of her. He knows his niece and nephew and their aunt have dragons, but he’s fairly sure that here in the North the Direwolves would still have a larger impact. 

Across from them stand Umber, Karstark, and Bolton men — the latter the only one without the lord present, and Oberyn wonders if it’s meant to be an insult or if they were relying on the bastard to hold the role. The doubt on their faces is obvious, as she looks like something from a song — Northmen and Southerners alike at her back, wolves at her side and hair like blood. 

“I am Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, the blood of the First Men flows in my veins, and you owe me your allegiance. I am here to reclaim Winterfell.” She pauses and looks over the men who stand against her, gaze serene. Oberyn, however, can see how white her hands are where they grip the reigns, but her seat and gaze are steady. “Ramsey Bolton tried to take me, and he died. If you surrender now there will be mercy, if not…” she shrugs, gracefully, and both of the wolves at her side snarl loudly enough to make the horses all shy away. All except for the Sand Steeds. “The north remembers,” she continues, passively. 

“How did the Bolton boy die?” asks who Oberyn supposes is the Karstark lord. 

“He grabbed Lady Stark,” Oberyn says, leaning forward nonchalantly on his horse with a grin, “and then was eaten by his own hounds.” 

Sansa glances at him, her lips curling slightly in response to his smile, before she looks back to their opposition. “He seemed to have forgotten that hounds are the relatives of wolves.” She fixes her gaze on the Karstark lord for a long moment, and the man flinches back like he’s been struck, and her smile grows slightly, “And I am a wolf.” 

“If your words are true,” probably the Umber lord says slowly, “than House Bolton is no more. Roose and his trueborn son were found dead within the last fortnight.” The man falls back into contemplative silence.

“Good,” says Lyanna Mormont — Oberyn’s favorite, after Sansa of course. It seems the Karstark lord doesn’t necessarily agree, however, as he sneers at the little lady of bear island before turning back to Sansa. 

“You’re just a girl,” he says, voice gentle, “what do you know of ruling? Of war?” 

Oberyn scowls at the implied insult, but Sansa simply stares him down until he drops his gaze. “My lord father and lady mother taught me how to rule. I know you don’t mean to imply anything against _them_.” Her lips curl back from her teeth, snarling like a wolf. “As for war — I was a prisoner of war in King’s Landing for four years — I know enough of war.” Her lips relax and she’s suddenly just a girl again. “If you mean _battle_ , however,” she shrugs gracefully, “there, I look to my advisors.” 

The man’s gaze swings across the group at her back and settles on Oberyn. “And why _is_ a southerner — a Dornishman,” he says with a sneer, “one of those advisors?” 

Mormont, Hornwood, Mazin and then Glover, Reed, Cerwyn and Manderly had all only been told that Oberyn had gotten Sansa out of King’s Landing, not why, and they’d accepted that gracefully enough. Sansa had sworn not to tell the truth of his sister’s survival, and she’d kept that promise. He wonders if Karstark will accept it as easily. 

“Oberyn Martell is my betrothed,” she says, calmly, and he clenches his jaw to keep it from dropping open. A glance to his side shows Mormont unsurprised, and past her the rest look equally blasé. “And has vowed to return my seat to me.” 

“You expect us to accept a _Southerner_ as king in the North?” he sneers.

Sansa laughs, head back, like he’s told a joke. Oberyn feel like he should be insulted — but it’s always such a pleasure to see her joy. “I expect you to accept a Stark, and to understand that her choosing a consort with connections is to the benefit of the North.” 

Karstark glowers, opens his mouth — and Umber speaks before he can. “House Umber will gladly follow a Stark again, my lady.” And he bows low on his horse.

Sansa nods at him, regally, and he and his men fall back away from Karstark and the Bolton men. 

“Your brother killed my father,” Karstark spits and Sansa arches an eyebrow. 

“I am not my brother, and you are not your father. Winter is coming, Lord Karstark. Shall we face it, side by side, as we’ve done for millennia or shall we fight amongst ourselves instead?” 

***

Winterfell isn’t unlivable — but it’s far more damaged than Sansa had expected and it makes her want to cry. There are too many eyes on her for that, however, so she straightens her spine and gets to work. 

She hasn’t spoken to Oberyn since Karstark and Umber surrendered — not really. She knows he’s likely confused about the false betrothal and she’s perhaps been avoiding the conversation with him. 

Since they took her away from King’s Landing — since they _rescued_ her — she’s been waiting for the price to come up. She hasn’t had a chance to ask more about Elia and her father’s part in her survival — and she’s not entirely sure she knows what to ask even if she has the chance but — But her father got Elia away from King’s Landing and then brought her back to Dorne, presumably. But that was all he had to do. 

They’ve _fought_ for her and bled for her and — And they backed her up when she was speaking to the Lords and she doesn’t —

They must want something. 

And the only thing she has to give is herself. 

Not that she thinks he would accept. But the Northern lords weren’t going to accept that he’s the most honorable of men and that he would just help her without _something_ and she wasn’t brave enough to find out what he did want so —

A small lie.

She hopes he and Ellaria will forgive her for it, but she’s prepared for them not to. 

She’s surveying repairs on the wall when she feels his presence at her back. She’s not sure how she knows so confidently it’s him, but she’s sure even before he’s spoken. There’s an awareness of him in her skin now and she finds herself turning towards him without giving permission to her body. 

“My lady,” he says, with a smile, and he offers her an arm that she’s incapable of refusing. “I was hoping I could have a moment of your time.”

“Of course,” she murmurs, dreading the conversation but looking forward to having his attention only on her for a short while anyways. 

“Wildlings approaching!” comes the call before they’ve walked more than five steps and her heart pounds — half terror, half excitement — and she pulls from him to rush to the wall where she can see and — Men are preparing arrows but despite the years she knows that head of curls and — 

“Hold your fire!” she commands, hope in her breast making her bold, and then she’s down the stairs and to the gate and — “Jon!” she breathes and she finds herself in his embrace before any of his men have even made it off their horses and she can see over his shoulder that they _are_ wildlings but she doesn’t care because she’s felt like the last Stark for so long and now Jon is here. 

“Well,” says Oberyn and he must have followed her on her flight and she finds herself reluctant to meet his gaze as she draws back from her brother. His tone is sharper than she’s used to hearing and he must be annoyed with her mad dash — she had promised to speak to him but…Jon. “There must be quite a story here. I thought the Night Watch couldn’t leave their post?” 

“I died,” Jon says, eyes tracing Sansa’s face and she might be crying and she wipes at her face and he’s pressing a kiss to her hair. His words don’t make sense, but she doesn’t care because he’s _here_. “My watch ended with my death and I’m here to support my sister.” 

“You’re Jon Snow,” Oberyn says, voice softer, and then he’s stepping closer and holding out a hand for Jon’s clasp. “Oberyn Martell.” 

Jon finally tears his gaze from her and fixes Oberyn with his stare, blinking in confusion as he takes his hand. “I admit, I thought the stories of my sister riding in with the Dornish to retake Winterfell were an exaggeration. You’re far from your land.” 

Sansa rests her hand on Oberyn’s forearm and shoots Jon a reproving look. “Oberyn saved me, Jon, from King’s Landing.”

Her brother grimaces and she regrets her words — she knows he couldn’t have come, the Watch wouldn’t have let him leave and even then he would’ve been one man and they would’ve been hunting him down regardless — she just wanted him to be more polite to Oberyn and — “First name, Sansa?” Jon says with an eyebrow arch and Sansa finds herself blushing before Oberyn covers her hand with his.

“She’s my betrothed,” he says, and Jon stares at the two of them for a moment before his eyes narrow and Sansa is not sure how this has all gone quite so wrong and she’s not sure how to fix it. 

“Who’s this?” Ellaria calls from across the courtyard, and Sansa is sure the glance she shoots her is so alarmed that she hurries over and wraps an arm around Oberyn’s other arm — which in retrospect probably doesn’t help and Jon is glowering now and —

“Why don’t we take this inside?” Sansa says, aware of the work that has stopped around them and suddenly reminded of the wildlings that her brother brought. “I think we both have stories to tell, Jon.” 

He nods and she lets go of Oberyn to wrap her arm around Jon’s and lead him into the hall, which is one of the few rooms that was only minorly effected by the occupation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARG!SANSA!!! 
> 
> I know most of you saw this coming, but I'll actually fully add the tag after this. 
> 
> Also, you may be now getting the idea that more than just Elia surviving has changed...and you would be right. Which is unfortunate, because I didn't plan for as many changes as I realize, now, I need. But I'll figure it out!
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


	4. dead walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s heart feels impossibly light, with Jon comes news that both Bran and Rickon are alive — or, at least, probably alive. Which is better than burnt and dead. Even if it will require a trip to Skagos.
> 
> A few of the Wildlings volunteer to go with the northern host to retrieve the boys, which most of the council have objected to but —
> 
> Sansa likes the Wildlings. They are honest. And they remind her of the Dornish, despite herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo hallo again! Some of you might notice that this has gained a chapter in the estimation of how long it's going to be. 4 chapters to wrap it up was clearly too ambitious and I'm already rushing through some things. But so as not to put off this chapter for even longer, I give it to you as I figure out chapter 5 ~~which will probably be the last chapter depending on how everything goes~~. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Sansa’s heart feels impossibly light, with Jon comes news that both Bran and Rickon are alive — or, at least, probably alive. Which is better than burnt and dead. Even if it will require a trip to Skagos.

A few of the Wildlings volunteer to go with the northern host to retrieve the boys, which most of the council have objected to but —

Sansa likes the Wildlings. They are honest. And they remind her of the Dornish, despite herself. (A few of the Dornish also volunteered, but then later retracted the offer, and she’s trying very hard not to think about why that might be.) 

So the host will go and, gods be good, retrieve her brothers and — 

But that’s for the future, and there’s too much to be done, still, to dwell on the future. She was right, winter is coming, and she can’t let the knowledge that soon she’ll have some of her family back -- she’ll have her family back! -- keep her from standing firm. 

She has, however, allowed the news to distract her from the other, very important, conversation she has to have. 

She should know better than to think she can avoid it forever, however, and nearly a week after Jon’s arrival she finds herself alone in her solar with Oberyn. 

“I apologize,” he says, and she freezes, heart about to beat out of her chest, because she cannot think of a single thing he’s done that would require an apology. Which means she must not know about it and -- the panic settles like a weight in her chest.

When he doesn’t appear in a hurry to continue she fills the silence, hands twisting together in her skirt to keep herself from reaching out to him. She does her best to keep her voice light, but the waver is unmistakable. “Prince Oberyn, I cannot fathom what you think requires my forgiveness, but you have it without asking.” 

“No, San-- Lady Stark,” he reaches for her but his hand drops with her stomach and he turns away. “I spoke out of turn, to your brother, telling him we were engaged.” 

She bites her lower lip hard enough to keep her first three sentences in. The fourth sentence she allows. “Given that I was the one to first use that ruse, in order to convince the lords of what I knew to be true -- that you were -- are -- trustworthy and -- It is my fault that the lie got told in the first place, and I must ask your forgiveness -- and that of Lady Ellaria, of course.” 

“Why did you,” he asks, not turning towards her, and she fidgets in place, “tell them that we were betrothed?” 

She had talked herself into and out of using that lie more times than she can count, on her journey north, so she sifts through her answers and presents him with the simplest ones -- the ones that don’t even hint at how she wishes it were true. “I am not at liberty to explain the debt you felt was owed, due to my father’s involvement with your sister’s fate, and I couldn’t think of anything else that would explain such selfless goodness that anyone in the north would accept from anyone in the south.” 

His shoulders dip for a moment and then his back is straight and he’s turning back to her with that devastating sardonic grin on his lips that always makes her feel a bit flush. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you keeping those events in confidence, my lady, as does my sister, I am sure. Soon you’ll be able to reveal all, however.” 

She nods slightly to acknowledge his words, even as she’s unsure what exactly he means. Unless… “Your -- your nephew, or niece, will be making a move for the throne?” she asks, mind working frantically to consider how this will change things -- how the effect will be felt here in the north. 

He laughs, delighted, and captures her hand. Her eyes find his and she fights off the blush she can feel building. “You never cease to amaze me, with how quickly you understand.”

She gives up fighting the blush. 

***

“Are you sure you must go?” Sansa knows she’s close to begging, that she sounds like a child, but she cannot help it. She understands why Oberyn must go, to help his family and keep them safe as they attempt to take the Seven Kingdoms back — or would it be six now? but that is a problem for another day —but there cannot be any military reason that Ellaria has to leave as well. 

“Oberyn will do something foolish, without me, and get his fool self killed -- and then where would we be, Sansa?” Ellaria keeps her voice light, but Sansa can read the worry in her eyes. It’s the same worry that grips her heart. 

The problem is she doesn’t believe that Ellaria will keep Oberyn safe — and war already took her mother and father and oldest brother and -- she wishes she could keep one of them safe, since she surely isn’t so lucky to keep them both. But she cannot hold Ellaria if Ellaria won’t let her -- and it’s not her place in any case. 

“Of course,” she says, trying a brave smile, “I understand. I look forward to hearing of your victory.” 

“Oh little wolf,” Ellaria says, and then she’s wrapped in a warm embrace and she doesn’t cry but she clings more than she should. “We’ll return, and when we do I look forward to seeing the progress you’ve made in rebuilding your home.” 

She nods and breathes deep, the scents of orange blossoms and spices and Ellaria thick on her tongue. 

“Now,” says Ellaria, stepping back after one last squeeze and clapping her hands together, “help me pick out a travel outfit.” 

***

They see the Dornish off at the gate. Sansa knows her bannermen are watching, so she keeps her face serene and still as she exchanges swift embraces with the party. Nymeria picks her up, despite being shorter than Sansa herself, and swings her around for an instant before winking and taking her leave. Ser Daemon’s bow is full of flourishes and extravagance that makes her smile. Both Ellaria and Oberyn press warm kisses to both of her cheeks, although Ellaria lingers and gives her a swift hug as well. 

Obara stays at her side, and when Sansa tries to reach for her for a farewell, the other woman scoffs and knocks her arms away. “I’m staying.” 

Sansa is not the only one to be surprised by this announcement — both Oberyn and Ellaria are clearly taken aback and Jon is frowning. 

Oberyn recovers quickest, dragging his daughter to him and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Of course, if you’re sure but —“ 

“I’m sure,” Obara says, and Sansa takes a deep breath to hold her tears back — Obara isn’t Oberyn or Ellaria and she shouldn’t be so moved by her staying but — but she is. 

She watches until the details of their party are gone, although they’ll be visible from the tower for quite some time yet, and then she goes back to her work. Jon offers his arm and she appreciates the warmth from her stoic brother -- she also appreciates the weight of Lady and Nym and Ghost where they crowd her skirts until she’s laughing, unable to take a step, even as Obara catches her when she starts to trip to set her right on her feet.

Life must continue on -- even if those who she has to thank for that life have left it. 

***

“We made your brother King in the North, my lady,” Hallis, of House Hornwood, tells her, once the only ones left in the hall are herself, Jon, and the heads of houses. “We would do the same for you if…” 

She doesn’t like the way he glances to the side, considering, and she’s relieved for a moment when Lyana Mormont takes up the conversation instead. “We’re worried about your betrothal, lady. We won’t kneel to a king from the south, not again.” 

Sansa owes Oberyn and Ellaria and _Dorne_ her life, but she cannot be surprised that her northern lords would not see it quite that way -- they hadn’t had to live in the Red Keep, after all. Of course, they also think the betrothal to be real, and not a lie made up so that she didn’t betray a more important trust. She’s afraid that if she told them the betrothal had been called off they would react poorly, which leaves her in an unfortunate position. 

Most important to her, however, is keeping her people from further loss -- she doesn’t think she has the heart to send them off to fight and die again. But as she looks around the table at them she realizes that even if she refuses the honor -- and it is an honor -- they will not allow themselves to bow to the iron throne again. 

Cautiously, she chooses her words. “Like many betrothals between the great houses, there is an understanding that while we will be equal in the marriage, when it takes place, we will not be equal in our responsibilities. And although it is not explicit, I am sure Prince Oberyn would understand becoming a consort, and not a king, as you will be crowning me...not him.”

***

Sansa tells no one about her practice. About the time her body spends in her solar while her mind soars with an eagle, skitters with a squirrel, or hunts with the hounds. She tries to teach herself how best to manage on purpose, and direct herself with any sort of accuracy. She lets herself be both an active participant and passive passenger.

This is how she sees Arya for the first time since that fateful day in Kings Landing, through the eyes of a mouse as she slinks closer and closer to the keep and -- 

If Arya is at all surprised to be set upon by her sister in naught but a nightrail just outside the keep she doesn’t show it, and only bothers to complain that her sister’s tears are making her damp.

***

The rabbit, frozen in terror, watches the army of the dead march by. It cannot feel the cold through its thick winter coat, and yet it shivers and shakes in fear. 

Sudden cold cuts and red is seeping out into the snow and -- 

Sansa comes back to herself with a gasp, fingers clawing at her chest where a spear of ice should be protruding as her heart beats its last and -- 

“What did you see?” Arya asks, draping a blanket over Sansa’s shaking shoulders. 

Sansa leans gratefully into the touch, her blood is frozen is ice is leaking out of her body steaming into the snow she is freezing even there she is _dying_ and -- 

“They’re coming,” she says, simply, when she can make her stiff lips form the words. 

Jon nods, grim, by the fireplace, while Bran watches Rickon rolling with Summer across the way. “The Wall will hold a while yet,” he says. 

Sansa wonders if she believes him. 

***

She drafts a dozen letters to the south — to Dorne — but she doesn’t send them. The war rages to the south, the battle for the Iron Throne, and she has no proof she can provide, other than her word, and isn’t willing to send her people to get it. 

Sansa wants to think that Oberyn and Ellaria would believe her at her word, without requiring proof. 

But she’s afraid of being wrong about that too.

So she holds back and hopes they have the time for her to do so.

*** 

Sugared lemons arrive in boats in White Harbor on her birthday — as well as meat and dragonglass.

“What did you tell them?” she asks Obara, once the first of the shipments have made it into Winterfell. 

Obara shrugs and winks, “I offered father some advice as to what a good courting gift would be — I suspect they think you plan to build a glass house out of the dragon glass.” 

Sansa, well aware of the Dornish sense of humor now, rolls her eyes and refuses to engage. She knows Obara knows the betrothal is a farce, and yet…

Arya snorts, palming one of the pieces of dragon glass and slashing the air with it. “I’m surprised you didn’t just tell them to come and fix it for us.” 

Sansa sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose and Obara bares her teeth in the mockery of a smile. “You forget, _lady_ , I’ve seen your sister conquer all of the North — I hardly think she needs anyone but _me_ to help her defeat this evil.” 

“I don’t know what—“ Arya starts, and Sansa decides to retreat before the screaming truly starts. The gods save her from the two of them. 

***

“Am I a fool for not asking for help?” she asks Jon as they stand on the ramparts and watch the forces prepare — all armed with dragonglass — Northman and Wildlings and Skagosi all together. “Will it be enough?”

“You have the letter ready for if we fail?” he asks, adjusting his buckles. 

She nods and he returns the gesture. “If we fail then dragons will set the north alight.” 

“Good,” he says, and then he leans over and presses a warm kiss to the chilled skin of her temple. “We’ll be fine. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives, right?” 

“Right,” she agrees, and curls her fingers into claws in her sleeves. She’ll ride with Lady for the battle, and the fate of the north — of the whole of humanity, perhaps —will be decided far too soon. 

***

The news comes by raven nearly three months after their own battle. After their own _success_. 

Targaryens sit the Iron Throne. 

There is no order, but the implication is clear — come to Kings Landing to swear fealty, or we will come to you. 

Sansa hands the missive around the table and returns to her breakfast. 

“You’re not going south,” Arya says, angrily, and Jon grunts an agreement. 

Sansa cuts into her meat carefully, and doesn’t let anything she’s feeling show on her face. 

Obara uses a blade to clean under the nails on her right hand. “They aren’t the Baratheons, or the Lannisters — they’re my cousins and —“ 

“She’s not going south,” Arya repeats, and there’s intense eye contact between the two that Sansa does her best to ignore. Eventually, Obara nods her agreement. No one consults Sansa at all and she doesn’t raise any objection.

***

They come by dragon later that month, and Jon, Arya, and some of the men ride out to greet them. 

Sansa waits in the courtyard, and tells herself she’s not disappointed when there are only three new faces in the returning group — and none she knows. 

“My uncle,” says the man as he dismounts and takes her hand in a smooth motion to press a kiss to it, “waxed so poetic about your beauty I thought for sure he must be lying, and now I can see that his stories didn’t do you a hint of justice.” He smiles at her in a way that does remind her a bit of Oberyn, but not enough to make her blush. She carefully extracts her hand from his grip and offers him a nod of greeting. 

He laughs and is shortly joined by the two women, who she also doesn’t know. The elder of the two is briskly rubbing her arms and looking about, and Sansa thinks she can see Oberyn in the curve of her nose — while the other is all pale delicacy. 

“ _Our_ uncle,” says the first woman, rolling her eyes, “also said we were to be polite, Egg.” The man turns his grin on her and her eyes roll again. “I’m Rhaenys, and this moron is my brother, Aegon. And our aunt, Daenerys. And you must be Sansa.” She extends a hand that Sansa reaches out to clasp. 

Obara, Sansa knows, is waiting in one of the buildings behind her, declaring it too cold to wait outside for them to arrive. But as she doesn’t appear, even as small chat is made, Sansa cannot help but wonder why she hasn’t come out to greet her cousins. 

***

Ellaria forces herself to take a deep breath to keep from yelling. And then she takes another as she reminds herself that she loves this idiot. “What do you mean,” she grits out between clenched teeth, “you haven’t been writing to her?” 

“Love,” he says, and she can hear the grind of her teeth now, even as he reclines back, comfortably, and holds his hands up to show he means no harm. “I make a poor correspondent.” 

“Don’t you ‘ _Love_ ’ me,” she fair spits and he seems to sink deeper into the seat in response. “No correspondence is far worse than poor correspondence.” 

He’s outright pouting now, and normally that expression is one that makes her want to nibble his lower lip, but currently that urge is nowhere to be found. “I sent her lemons, and meat, and dragon glass -- Obara said she liked it!” 

“You’ve been writing to Obara but not --!” Ellaria cannot finish the sentence in anything but a shriek, and she grabs a pillow to muffle it so as not to alarm the rest of the keep. Or worse, lead them to the assumption that they’re making love when she most wants to strangle him. 

His hand is on her arm for only a moment before she takes the pillow she’s been screaming into and starts to hit him with it. She hadn’t asked him before now because she’d assumed he was doing what he should and — if his negligence has lost them Sansa she may never forgive him. 

“We need to go there, now.” She demands, once he’s wrestled the pillow away from her and she’s allowed him to catch her and hold her in his arms. 

“Um,” he says, and she feels dread pool in her stomach. He must feel her stiffen because after a moment he adds, voice soft, “I believe that my niece and nephew and their aunt are probably already there.” 

Ellaria isn’t sure why she’s the only one who can see what trouble that is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, not a lot of OT3 in this chapter, I am sorry but -- plot happened, somewhere? I don't know either. Next chapter should be pretty much all people together with as little plot as I can justify. 
> 
> Also, I have another weird ship apparently, which totally blindsided me while I was writing it. Any guesses? In any case, they are definitely hooking up in the background, no I don't take criticism. 
> 
> I think that's everything. I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy at this time and always. <3 
> 
> Oh, also, this probably could use some more editing, like everything, but if I don't get it posted now ya'll won't get it for another hundred years so, have at. Let me know if anything is super obviously wrong.


End file.
